


Rose and Gold

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, a lot of references to niki's trauma, gratuitous french but also gratuitous italian, lucrezia likes niki in a very lucrezia way and niki is probably not even aware, one-sided mostly, spoilers for 1711, this started out as a fic about lucrezia being a fashionista but then it went downhill, unhealthy relationship dynamics, which is not super romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9599222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Lucrezia does not know what she does not know. Roses do not grow so well once they are cut, fireworks are explosions, and one cannot become acquainted with a person who no longer exists.





	

They spend the turn of the century in Paris.

It’s one stop on an aimless journey. They are both dead, for all intents and purposes, but this only makes them _free_. All they have now is time, and no one knows how to spend it so well as a Parisian — or so Lucrezia says, swirling a glass of chardonnay in her lissome hand. She fits in well amongst the socialites, new wave monarchy that they are; they welcome this girl in all her gold-gilded glory, enamoured by her foreign charm, her aged wit, her youthful beauty. Here they do not question the closeness she shares with her companion, a pretty thing but for her bandages who often hangs on her arm when they walk. Here they do not ask her what tragedy ails her. Here strangeness _is_ charm. This is a city where oddities can exist without shame. This is a city for eternal life.

"Tell me, how much do you know of the War of Spanish Succession?" she asks the room, her French kissed by the accent of her homeland; light, rolling _r_ s dancing off her tongue. Pink lips part in laughter as scholars scramble to impress her with facts and dates — _1700, no, 1701, Charles II, The Treaty of Utrecht, the significance of_ —

"Only the boring things, then." She has a smile that can strip the most knowledgeable man of his confidence, can make him doubt that the sky is blue and the grass is green. She delights in those frantic, searching expressions they put on when they are made to question what they speak. "That's as good as _nothing_ at all."

She meets her companion's eye when she says this, an exchange that _almost_ reaches through her daze. She sips at her drink and leans back on the sofa, laying her head on her shoulder, blonde locks draped against a backdrop of red velvet. She beguiles a dozen ears with tales of a certain city: a revolutionary sewage system, a drug trade, a masked serial killer, a womanising count, fire and gold and eternal life, and too many ghosts to name — and though she performs it grandly to those dozen, it is meant only for _one_.

Niki looks like herself when she is _remembering_ , and that is a woman Lucrezia would like to be more acquainted with. When she tells these stories she watches her eyes glow with understanding. Sometimes she leans into her, into the warmth of her familiarity; all flowers grow towards light, however dim. It is art to an onlooker, the blue of the sky meeting the brown of the earth in silent conversation, sun-kissed skin intertwining with pale marble, rose melting seamlessly into gold.

 

* * *

 

 

She does not tire of taking new lovers any more at two-hundred-and-thirty than she had at thirty. Different bodies offer different pleasures, and what good is eternity if one cannot explore _pleasure_? They had not been granted immortality that they could rot away in their virtues; those who claim that endless life is a curse in disguise — that tedium will catch up to them all in the end, that happiness is not defined by wealth or longevity — must not know how to entertain themselves.

It is rare that she does not return home with two people at her side — _two_ , because there is always Niki — though at times the number has risen to three, two of them scrambling for one arm while she is given exclusive rights to the other. It is rare, but it happens. Some nights the _Vincents_ and _Jacquelines_ and _Maries_ blur together and no face stands out amongst the crowd for her to gift her attention to. Some nights she longs more for old pleasures than new ones. Some nights all she longs for is _company_ , and the grasping hands of eager lovers do not compare to the subtleties of a deeper bond.

Moonlight streams into the room freely — why draw the curtains? Why make to _hide_ , when it is so much her nature to _flaunt_? If a passerby were to look up and see her curvaceous outline, then so be it; it would not change the fact that they cannot _have_ it. A rich man does not fumble to hide his coppers from the poor. She is rich in _all_ ways, and does not deign to veil it. Let them envy, let them ogle, let them lust; it will not stop her from basking in moonlight.

Only the chill of winter can make her modest — if _modest_ is the word, thin sheet draped loosely over her shoulders, shielding her form but doing little to conceal it. Pale skin peeks out as the fabric shifts with her movements, tiptoeing across the cold floorboards with grace enough that it seems more a glide. She would be ghostly, drifting in her cloud of white sheet, moonbeams twining in her blonde hair, were it not for her expression: rosy cheeks and glossy smile, a face so lively, so vibrant, that it breathes colour into the grey of the atmosphere.

"You must be freezing, darling." The mattress barely moves when she puts her weight on it, the softest creak in the quietest night. Niki does not look up. Whether she is lost in her thoughts or the pages of her book is impossible to discern; her eyes are too vague in the low light for Lucrezia to gauge their vacancy. She lays her hand on her shoulder, and Niki reacts immediately — her touch is not as warm as she would like it to be, slender fingers made icy by the draft. She raises her head in a sudden, jerking movement, mouth open in a silent gasp.

"I didn't mean to startle you, sweetheart," her saccharine voice soothes, and Niki's expression relaxes into her usual stoicism. "Are you cold?"

She shakes her head, which should be a sure enough answer were it not followed by a shudder. Lucrezia purses her lips. "Silly thing, you don't have to put on a brave face."

— Perhaps it's instinct now. What else can be expected after braving so much for so long?

She reaches over to pull the blanket up, and Niki lifts her arms obligingly. Her laughter warms where her touch does not.

"Tell me, are you looking forward to tomorrow?" A pause; she searches her face for an answer, and finds the canvas of her features blank. It can take an awful lot of effort to paint in _any_ emotion at all, but for the many things that _can_ be said about Lucrezia de Dormentaire, it cannot be said that she isn't _determined_.

She lets out a small huff of a breath as she lays herself down, dainty hand lifting the book from Niki's lap so that her head can take its place. Niki looks down to meet her eyes. _Good_ , _she_ is _paying attention after all_.

"No? Not even a little?" Her shoulders might lift into a shrug of indifference — or it may just be a _movement_ ; it is ever difficult to tell which ones have meaning. Lucrezia bounds on regardless. "We'll have to go shopping first, of course. They can be ever so picky about clothing here — and I admire it, I _do_! — but it's quite a challenge to keep up with the latest trends, isn't it, darling?"

How much easier it had been to stay ahead of the times in her own century, when fashion had evolved by years rather than by _days_! Of course, the invention of boutiques helps — if she had to rely on the personal dressmaker she'd had then, her fingers would surely go numb from all the sewing.

" _Mm_ , but I love a challenge. It's exciting, isn't it?" She hums, running a hand through her hair. This time it _is_ a shrug, she's sure of it, and rather than discourage her, the knowledge that Niki is _listening_ brings liveliness to her voice.

"I've heard, you know, that _orange_ is **in** this season. I'm not sure I'm adventurous enough," she laughs. "But it would be delightfully bold if _you_ —"

Niki shakes her head, curt and definitive. It is a simple gesture, but a knowing one. These are rare and precious things. Lucrezia reaches up to set a hand on her cheek, smiling.

"Ah well, you _do_ know your colour, _mi rosa_."

 

* * *

 

 

And she does.

" _Che bella che sei_!" Her hands _clap_ in delight, and the woman stood in the doorway brightens — is it the compliment, or the fact that it is in her native tongue when so often Lucrezia defaults to her _own_? She cannot clarify, and would not if she could; Lucrezia does not ask her to, and would not care if she did. It is more reactions than explanations that hold her interest.

The shopkeeper, whose watchful eyes have followed this odd pair from their entry into the boutique, struggles to see the _wonder_ Lucrezia does. To an outsider, Niki, the woman at the door of the fitting room, is a sad sight. Though her face is fair — wide, dark eyes, and soft features — the gaze is drawn naturally to the bandages wrapping her right side. If he could focus on anything else he would surely agree that the dress suits her, but all he can think is that she does not look _well enough_ to be trying on dresses at all.

If Lucrezia notices the staring, she does not deign to acknowledge it. She has always drawn attention to herself; having Niki at her side has not increased it so much as changed the nature of it, and so she adapts easily. _Of course_ people are going to have questions — but their questions don't concern her. If it can't be fixed, and it _can't_ , there's no reason to dwell on it; she's far too hedonistic to allow _worry_ to taint the pallet of her emotion.

Red silk billows as Niki sways in front of the mirror — and there is something to be said for how the colour complements her, but there is _more_ to be said for how she came to be wearing it. She had picked it _herself_ , after all — even if only from a handful of dresses that Lucrezia had collected, even if only out of obligation, she had raised her arm to point to _this one_ in particular. How strange that the most fascinating detail would be the one an outsider would overlook; they are too busy imagining her deformities to know the significance of her autonomy. How strange to be unable to see what a wonderful thing it is.

What a wonderful thing it is — to be assured that beneath all the mental fog there is some part of her reaching out.

"It's lovely, don't you think?"

Niki nods.

"Wonderful!" she says, because it is.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucrezia decks herself out in white and gold; purity and richness — a lie and a truth. There is sweet irony in wearing the coat of a lamb when she is more fox.

But there is no irony in Niki wearing the petals of a rose; they are one and the same — thorny to touch but beautiful when blossoming, cut at the stem and withering in spite of the pretty vases they are put in.

 

* * *

 

 

" _Dîtes-moi, ma petite, comment vous appelez vous_?"  

Lucrezia fits in well amongst the socialites, new wave aristocracy that they are — but Niki had been born in the gutter, and lavish dresses do not make a servant girl royalty. There are many reasons she does not give an answer: because she does not hear the question, because she would not be able to _understand_ the question, because her words have forgotten themselves, because _she does not have an answer to give_.

She'd had a name once — only for a short while, but it had meant something and that _something_ had been _hers_. That name is gone now, or at least her ownership of it is; if she could speak perhaps she would not even be able to _call_ herself 'Niki', perhaps the panacea would decide it is a lie to claim that she has any attachment to that label now. Perhaps not. Perhaps those rules do not have such delicate considerations; it is her name whether it feels like it or not.

Either way she does not answer; cannot, will not.

The man opens his mouth to repeat the question, but he stops when a supple arm wraps around his.

" _Désolée, mon chou!_ " a voice sings into his ear. " _Ma chère amie_ — _elle ne parle pas le français._ "

Lucrezia presses close enough that a stranger might presume her relationship with the man — but anyone acquainted with her would be unable to hazard a guess; she could have known him for years or months, she could have met him earlier that day, she could have met him earlier that _hour_. 

" _Elle viens de l'Espange aussi?_ "

" _Non, pas l'Espange. L'Italie._ ”

 _“Ah, ouias._ "

Following a few attempts to speak in clumsy Italian —

"I've visited Pompeii. Fascinating city."

— met by Niki's ever vacant stare, the man excuses himself from the conversation. Lucrezia purses her lips into a pout as though she is sorry to see him go, but once he has left she moves easily to the woman's side.

" _'Ma petite'_ ," She laughs, voice soft and low. "Oh, it's a shame neither of you were able to see the humour in that. I was so _tempted_ to tell him how old you are — imagine the look on his face!"

From her expression, Niki is decidedly _not_ imagining the look on his face. Sometimes Lucrezia tries to guess what she **is** imagining, but the truth is she doesn't know her well enough, even after two hundred years. She knows the woman who emerged from the smoke and fire, the one who suffers nightmares and unhealing wounds, but not the one who stepped into it, the one who, she suspects, is still at her core. The bare facts, the raw details — she had been a spy, a slave, a mask maker, a maid, a caretaker — they do not define a person, they do not give insight into her mind.

"One day," she declares, turning her chin up. "I _will_ get you to laugh, darling. It wounds me how you ignore my jokes!"

Yet there is mirth in her voice.

It is a night of celebration, and everyone and every _thing_ in the room knows it.

Conversation fills every corner, touched by every flavour of accent and language, and Lucrezia sates a deep, unshakeable thirst for all that the world has to offer with little tastes; she dips in and out of discussions at her fancy, amusing herself with all the quaint _hopes_ and _goals_ and _resolutions_ being decided upon. Life as they know it will soon end and begin again; New Year's Eve might feel insignificant after experiencing more than two hundred of them, but the _parties_ are glorious. How she feeds off the atmosphere! Even the champagne bubbles with excitement.

It is a night of celebration, and everyone and every _thing_ in the room knows it — except, perhaps, Niki.

Every year she and Lucrezia appear at the most decadent celebrations, and every year the festivities pass her by without notice — but this year, she has decided, will be different.

"What do you think of New Year's Resolutions, my sweet?" she asks, and, knowing that a satisfactory cannot be given, continues without a beat: "It reminds me rather too much of Lent — and what an _irksome_ holiday that is."

Features so delicate struggle to contort in disgust, but they find their way; thin brow furrowed, narrow nose scrunched up. Growing up she had participated in it, of course, if only to keep good face around the rest of the aristocracy. She recalls abstinence grimly — how wasteful it had been, to pretend to deny herself of things she wanted and deserved.

"Now, if someone wants to become _better_ then I have no business stopping them, but I just don't see why that should require giving anything up." She lets out a soft sigh, leaning back against the wall. "Of course, they say that resolutions are different — but they sound awfully similar in some ways."

She tilts her head to her companion, though she is as responsive as the brick behind her. It is impossible to tell where the break is — whether Niki understands her but cannot respond, or could respond but does not understand her, or could understand her but does not listen — and so she speaks anyway, not knowing how many of her words carry through but unwilling to dismiss the possibility that _some_ of them might.

"And that's not the way to go into a new year, is it, darling? Certainly not this one." She reaches for Niki's hand, slender fingers tracing patterns on her palm. "We should welcome a new century with _more_ than we had before, not _less_."

She searches her eyes for something — hope, or skepticism.

"What do _you —"_

 _What do you want from the next century_?

The _clink_ of metal against glass interrupts her thought.

Through an uproar of drunken applause, the word _countdown_ reaches her ears. Question all but forgotten, she tugs at Niki’s hand.

“ _Oh_ , finally! It’s time for the _exciting_ bit!”

 

* * *

 

 

The frost would eat right through the light fabric of her dress were the balcony not so crowded; Niki is nestled close to her, a necessity created by both the temperature and the confines of the space. Sparing only a few fleeting glances her way to ensure that she hasn’t grown too disorientated, Lucrezia cranes her neck to see over the the people in front of her — even on the tips of her toes she is rather dainty.

_Dix, neuff, huit…_

It’s a shame: she’d hoped to get a clear view of them. They _are_ supposed to be quite a spectacle here.

_Trois, deux —  
_

A _woosh_ and — nothing, as far as she can see. She purses her lips, trying to stand a little bit taller, raise herself by just enough — then the _crack_ , a loud, thunderous sound from above her that tilts her head up. The skies flare with colour, and her expression flares with a smile.

“Look, sweetheart!”

She turns her gaze away just long enough to meet Niki’s eyes, and contents herself that they look wider, more focused; she knew, she just _knew_ this would capture her attention. It's a dazzling display, to be sure, lights blazing trails in the dark sky, and she feels accomplished to have found a means of celebration that even _Niki_ cannot ignore —

Until she feels the hand on her arm, clenching tighter, _tighter_ , so desperately that if her nails were sharper they would tear through the sleeve.

“Niki, darling, what are you —”

Sometimes Lucrezia tries to guess what Niki is imagining in moments like these, when her mind is not quite in the present, but in this one she doesn’t _have_ to. It is written for her to read, in the terrible tremor of her body, in her small, fast breaths, in her eyes — wide, yes, but with terror, not enchantment.

 _Oh_.

_Oh, but that hadn’t been her intention at all._

The fireworks in this city are beautiful, and she’d wanted to watch them with her — or maybe she’d just wanted to _watch them_ , maybe seeing her reaction had only ever been a bonus, maybe she hadn’t been thinking about _her_ at all. What had there been to _think_ about?

_They’re just fireworks —_

But every flash of light is a burst of flame, and every echoing _bang_ is an explosion, and she does not have to know Niki very well to know what memories these things bring to mind.

 _I’m sorry,_ she should say.

But _is_ she?

She doesn’t want Niki to hurt; she may not be caring by nature, but neither is she malicious —

Only **selfish**. Selfish enough that she isn’t sure if she’s sorry for causing this or just sorry that it’s _happening_ , sorry that this wounds her or just sorry that her wounds mean _she_ cannot enjoy it; selfish enough that even as she watches her quake with fear the first question she asks is how much it will benefit her to do right by Niki.

The fireworks are beautiful, and it is not instinct to deny herself of beautiful things.

 

* * *

 

 

But Niki is beautiful, too.

“You’re supposed to be happy, silly darling.”

She’d had to lead her quite a ways into the building to escape the worst of it, all of its blaring brightness, but even here noise pervades like a distant barrage of gunfire. It’s an apt description, she thinks; Niki shakes as though she is in a war zone.

“Be a good girl and put on that brave face for me, won’t you?”

Somewhere along the way her frantic breaths had turned to sobs, and Lucrezia does not know how to mould herself to comfort her; if she uses her hands to cover her ears, she cannot use them to dry her tears. She wraps her arms around her instead and pulls her as close to her as she can.

“You’re going to make _me_ cry.” She doesn’t realise when she says it that it might be true — the stinging of her eyes worsens with every broken sound that escapes Niki.

Outside a firework explodes into life; in her arms, a whimpering woman shudders with the same force.

“You… you impossible thing,” her voice is a whisper. “What does it take to see you stop _grieving_?”

Is it something that _she_ does not have?

— Patience, or humility, or one of those other virtues she refuses to rot away with? She may want for nothing, but she is far from possessing everything she _needs_.

Lucrezia de Dormentaire is rich in all ways, except in the ways that she is not.

 

* * *

 

 

Her hysteria is ended only by her exhaustion.

“You’re very sweet to help.”

She makes long strides to walk beside him, a man at least a half a foot taller than she who carries a limp Niki as though she’s the weight of an _infant_. She’d been very lucky to find someone who served the purpose so well —

“She’s not the first person in the world to have too much wine on New Year’s Eve.”

No, not _luck_. He wouldn’t have volunteered himself if she hadn’t worked her charms, after all. Calling it luck would be undermining her efforts.

“No, I’d imagine not.”

Blithe laughter carries in the quiet alley. A few hours ago these walkways had been filled with roaring cheers and crackling fireworks, but there is nowhere more _hushed_ than an early morning following a late night; the dawn settles over them soft and soundless.

“It’s strange, though — I hardly saw her touch a drop.”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t have much… tolerance these days.”

“Because of her accident?”

“… Mhm.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t pry — I hope she recovers soon.”

Heels click against the cobblestone. The smallest sounds stand out too much without the background noise.

“Yes.” She nods. “So do I.”

 

* * *

 

 

He leaves once Niki is settled in her bed.

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like, darling,” Lucrezia had told him with her usual coy smile, but he had declined.

_I think she needs you more than I do.  
_

— he’d told her, as though _being_ needed is ever the deciding factor. It is what _she_ needs that counts.

She does not tell him this; she closes the door with a _thank you_ and a _goodnight_.

Niki is almost peaceful in her sleep. With her eyes closed she can look neither vacant nor terrified — with them open she rarely looks anything else.

Lucrezia knows not to call it peace. Perhaps she _does_ dream well some nights — in her more live moments she has reacted vividly to mentions of the Count, of Lebreau, of Elmer; she must have pleasant memories stored away somewhere, too. She knows not to call it peace because she has ensured that tonight cannot possibly _be_ one of those nights. 

She lays beside her, the gossamer of her skirt cascading over Niki’s silk; rose melting seamlessly into gold. She does not sleep for a long while, watching a face that is at once so _familiar_ and so _unknown_ shift from one unnameable emotion to another.

“ _You need me_ , hmm,” she murmurs, only to herself. “I don’t think that’s entirely true, is it?” 

She needs her like a withering flower needs a pretty vase; all she can do is make the struggle of her survival less _ugly_. She cannot help her blossom again. 


End file.
